Will someone swoop in and save the diner before the doors close?
Will another bank foreclose on it, like they did last time?
Or is there some way Rory can save it that I haven’t thought of?
I know there’s nothing I can do at this point, other than ride out the rest of the storm.
My monitor blinks off—I guess I haven’t touched the mouse in fifteen minutes—and the black of the screen reflects the faceof a woman who didn’t care enough to tame her hair, put on makeup, or even try to hide how broken she is inside.
There is no fire in her eyes, no will to prove that she can do this.
She can’t.
She failed.
And now it’s the embarrassing part where she limps along until someone else takes the problem off her hands.
All because I didn’t disclose where my funding came from.
Like the universe knows all I want to do is hide away, my phone buzzes on the desk and my face pulls, remembering the way Wilder used this desk like his canvas, the way he took me on it our first time.
Snatching the phone off of the surface, like it could sully the memory, I glance at the messages and see a string of unanswered texts.
Rory Grady
I hope you know I’m doing everything I can to help you out of this.
Lex
We’re sisters, bitch. In this together.
For better or worse.
That’s wedding vows, but it seems like a mixup you’d make, so I think it counts.
You’ll have to answer me eventually.
You can’t avoid me forever.
Our family plots are next to each other.
And, finally, the newest one.
I hope you’re still coming to the bonfire.
Sighing, I thumb the chat, finger drifting over the keyboard, backspacing every time I think I figured out what to say. Eventually, I clack out a message and hit send.
Me
Not really in the mood.
I don’t even blink before there’s an answer.
I’m counting on you to bring the catering.
So we’re guilt tripping, I see.
I’m not sure s’mores skewers count as catering, but sure.
